


Slashing the Bard: Coriolanus

by Hellesgift



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellesgift/pseuds/Hellesgift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry into the 2005 Highlander "Slashing the Bard" contest. Lines borrowed directly from Shakespeare are enclosed in //slashes//.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slashing the Bard: Coriolanus

**The soldiers assembled around the campfire in the Volscian city of Corioli were strangely silent.  Two days before the start of a campaign against the Romans, they should have been carousing, finding a last measure of comfort in amphorae of wine or the arms of whores, before beginning the four day march across unfriendly country.  But that night the soldiers were eerily quiet, all eyes focused on a point near the fire, as birds will stare, helpless, into the lustful gaze of a hungry snake.**

**At the unconcerned apex of their collective gaze, the Pict was sharpening his sword--long, loving strokes of the whetstones against the unbelievably sharp edge of the alien blade.  He was a great leader; none of the men silently watching him would have denied it.  And he was blessed by the gods; the crawling patterns indelibly inked on his golden skin were seemingly a defense against any blade.  Many had witnessed him injured, yet seen him wash off the blood to show no wound or scar.  His slave, in fact, had once removed a Roman short-sword from the Pict's thigh, but the glowing blue patterns on his skin hid any reminder of that painful thrust.**

**That slave could now be seen making his way slowly across the courtyard, his progress lit fitfully by the flickering red and gold of the fire and torches.  He was a brave boy to approach thus, with the Pict in so tenuous a humor.**

**Adrian stood, respectful, a few feet in front of his master.  He knew that any false move or even a shift of his master's mood could bring a blow--or the point of that beautiful blade through his heart.  But he also knew himself to be useful to the Pict, and usefulness is something of a guarantee, as long as the owner of the object is not mad.  The Pict was driven, *inspired*, but not mad.**

**He had to force himself not to shudder as the slow, soft movements of the whetstone ceased.  With a courage that the watching soldiers envied, he held his ground as the wildly patterned face of his master raised from the methodical task.  Cool brown eyes met his, and then the Pict's calm smile dispersed a portion of the fear in his heart.  A slight nod was his invitation to speak.**

**"Master, know you the General Caius Marcius, whom the Romans laud as savior?"**

**"Aye."**

**"I am asked by your informant," he paused, and the Pict's nod of approval reassured him that the identity of that informant was known by the two of them--and did not need to be known by the onlookers.  "I am asked by your informant to convey the information that the Roman army will once again be led by Caius Marcius."**

**Adrian did not step back, even though the flare of fierce delight in his master's face caused a near-silent murmur to run through the assembled ranks.  When the Pict answered, the low, throbbing tone of eager bloodlust was like meat to the waiting soldiers.  "//If I and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'tis sworn between us we shall ever strike till one can do no more.//"  The Pict ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip, then smiled at the boy.  He spoke a line in his native language, baring his teeth in a wild grimace, and Adrian grinned back.  It did not matter to him why his master was so happy to face the man who had once left a short-sword trapped in Pictish bone and sinew.  Enough that Adrian could now return to his master's quarters to prepare for the campaign.**

**"Thank you, master."  And then, at the Pict's challenging look, he attempted the near impossible.  He could never get the pronunciation right, but..."Thank you, Dun-chn."  The wry grin he received in response showed him how far off he still was.  With an apologetic shrug and a low bow he turned to go, moving through the now-rustling camp with easy familiarity.**

 

* * *

**The day's activities had started early in the house of the brothers.  In the inner rooms of the low villa, the cool quiet of night still lingered, but the servants' quarters already bustled with the many chores of a well-run household.  The housekeeper, a freedwoman of good standing, was reviewing her troops with an intimidating determination that would have impressed even her employers.**

**The smell of fresh flat-breads mixed with the delicate scent of honey and figs, perfuming the inner courtyard.  Beyond the walls, Rome shifted from its nighttime somnolence to the eager hive of daily life.  Little of the sound pierced the inner sanctum of the home, however.  There calm still reigned, and the rising sun, already hot, wafted hesitant eddies of wind, breathing life into the still air of the waking villa.**

**Casually chewing a fig, Kronos watched his brother as he made another nervous circuit of the courtyard.  Methos' bare feet unconsciously followed the subtle patterns of tiny river-smoothed pebbles imbedded in the floor's plaster, and Kronos was reminded anew of the feral animal his brother had been at their first meeting.  Superimposed on the image of the pacing man, he saw the wild creature, maddened by grief and loss, whom he had tamed with a well-judged mix of love and brutality.  How Rome would stare, if she could know her noble General as he had been those many centuries ago.**

**"Brother," he said, warningly, "Methos, sit down, eat something."  A flash of gold-flecked eyes was his only answer, and Kronos grinned at the slow uncoiling of lust that such a challenge unleashed in him.  Methos was growing full of himself, sitting late at night with that new slave from Kroton, discussing life and numbers as if either were of any value.**

**"You're so fond of talking now, brother," he continued.  "Tell me what rat is scurrying around that twisted warren of your brain."  Kronos could not help but grin at the look on his brother's face as Methos stopped suddenly, standing poised on a patch of dark stone, his toes gripping the floor as if the world might shift without warning.**

**"Why are we here?"**

**At that, Kronos laughed out loud.  "I would have thought that kind of question more befitted your discussions with your young slave."**

**"Clever."  Methos inclined his head.  "No, why are we still here?  Still in Rome?  Still trapped in this fetid pit of festering politics?"**

**"To hear you say that, one would think you didn't like it here."**

**Methos took two quick steps towards him.  "It's time to move on.  We've been here too long."**

**"And yet," Kronos sneered, "you were so eager to come."**

**"I came here for Gallus Servillius.  We found him.  I killed him.  I took his head.  It's time to move on."**

**"Ah, but what you stupidly leave out in your clever summary of events, *brother*, is that in the course of finding and eliminating the murderer of your teacher, you also became Caius Marcius. And that Caius Marcius, with my guidance, has become the greatest leader Rome can remember."**

**"In my experience, that makes this the perfect time to leave."**

**"There is talk that you could become Consul."**

**It was Methos' turn to laugh.  "Why would I want that?  Bad enough to endure the prating of the tribunes and senators at their public orations."  He moved suddenly to sit on the stool at the foot of Kronos' chair.  "Don't you hear the desert calling us, brother?  The vast uncharted waste, waiting to be conquered; the howl of the sandstorm trying to vanquish immortality..." he glanced up and continued in calculating tones, "the call of the vultures over our kill?"**

**Kronos gave him no encouragement, and Methos shook his head angrily.  "Every day the walls of Rome move closer, and the 'citizens' continue to breed.  We are not meant for this life.  Let us ride again; we have no reason to stay.  The Pythagorean slave tells me of the remains of a civilization in Africa, ancient and rich in knowledge.  I thought perhaps I might even remember something there."  He saw he was losing his audience.  "We could journey on to the tribes of Nubia--there is so much to learn of tactics, strategy. Let me find us a new land to conquer and the means to do it."**

**Kronos raised his hand, with implacable tenderness, to tighten around Methos' throat.  "You are a fool.  Soon you will hold Rome in your palm.  And with her armies and treasury behind you, you will have no need for scrolls and scholars."**

**"You want an army so badly?"  Methos struck his hand away.  "Why not let me find another, one where you could ride with me at its head--"**

**"We are too close here--" Kronos began, but Methos spoke over him.**

**"--one where you have *not* been seen taking a sword through the spine by half the populace."**

**"Be silent!"**

**"One where you could walk and ride and fight again, and not sit like a cripple in this--" his oration was interrupted by a hard forearm to the throat, as Kronos pinned him back against the wall.**

**Kronos held him there, like an eagle chained, until the militant fire in Methos' eyes was banked by a slow rise of sensuality.  Leaning in firmly, Kronos felt the taut, straining resistance of the lithe body give way to a more welcoming flex of supplication.**

**Such a challenge, Kronos reflected, letting a slow smile tease its way across his scarred face.  'Such a challenge, this eagle of mine.  But, by the nonexistent gods, with a trained hand on the jesses, what a magnificent hunter, my eagle.'**

**The bird must be rewarded if the hunt was to continue, however.  Leaning in until he breathed into Methos' mouth, he spoke in measured tones.  "//The Volsces are in arms.//"  He watched with warm anticipation as the slow flush of blood fever rose in his brother's face.  "That should make you glad, eh?  A good battle."**

**Methos was focused on a distant new desire in front of him, and Kronos stepped back.  He had hoped to reward them both this morning, but by the light in Methos' eyes, that time was past.  Ah well, better not to exhaust him before a battle. They should be planning, considering tactics.**

**Methos had resumed his pacing, fired by eager anticipation.  Before Kronos could suggest practicalities, Methos answered his last statement.  "A good battle!  A worthy opponent, too."**

**"Yes, the Pict.  //You have fought together.//"**

**"//Were half to half the world by the ears, and he upon my party, I'd revolt, to make only my wars with him: he is a lion that I am proud to hunt.//"**

**Striding about the courtyard, Methos did not notice the sudden stillness in his brother's eyes.  "A barbarian, surely," Kronos murmured, with studied calm.  "A painted savage from the mountainous vastness of Caledonia."**

**"Unlike our civilized pasts, brother?"  Methos laughed scathingly.  "//I sin in envying his nobility; and were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he.//"**

**"And one of *us*, I believe you told me?"  The chill stillness in Kronos' voice should have been a warning.**

**"I've fought to the tune of his Presence time and again.  And beaten him, too.  Rome shall give me the excuse to strike at him again."**

**"Now you see a use for Rome, brother?"  Kronos' words were a low growl in the back of his throat.  "The last time we rode against the Picts, I remember them tying their enemies' heads to their saddles.  Be careful you do not end up decorating his horse."  Lightning quick, he leaped to trap the figure pacing in front of him.  But this time Methos was in fighting humor, and they struggled for a long minute, tight, angry actions of men reluctant to kill but willing to injure.**

**His eagle had no right to fly to any glove but his!  This admiration for an *enemy*--with a last furious burst of force, Kronos pinned his opponent against a stout column.  Their breathing sounded loud in the quiet courtyard, which echoed with harsh gasps of anger and arousal.  "I decide where you strike, brother.  Not Rome, and not you."**

**"Caius Marcius makes his own plans, *brother*."  Methos panted, making an almost-successful lunge for freedom and driving his elbow into Kronos' ribs.**

**Kronos tightened his grip, pulled Methos away from the column, and slammed him back into the stones, relishing his pained grunt on impact.  Pressing his knee painfully into Methos' groin, he reached up and grabbed a fistful of hair.  He allowed himself a fond memory of the long, tangled mane, sacrificed in the name of Roman fashion, which had offered such a firm grip to his fist and had wound itself so sweetly around Methos' lying throat.**

**This shorn hair was not nearly so attractive a handle, but with it he managed to pull Methos into a brutal kiss.  More pressure from his knee stopped Methos' instinctive struggle, and Kronos set about gentling his pet, allowing him a taste of his own blood as their mouths opened to each other.**

**A noise just outside the atrium was Kronos only warning before Methos suddenly reversed their positions and he found himself shoved against the column, held by Methos' strength.  As the sound came closer, they shared a quick, fierce grin, and Kronos allowed his legs to go limp, leaning into Methos' support.  Holding his brother's sagging form, Methos bowed again to renew their kiss, providing an intimate picture to no one, for the intruder had paused just out of sight at the edge of the courtyard.**

**Their slaves knew better than to interrupt, and by the end of their long embrace, Kronos was sure that Methos must be tiring.  But he was held firmly, and when Methos finally pulled away, the warm sense of adversity shared was once again palpable between them.**

**"Let's get you back to your chair."  Methos whispered huskily.  "Aedinius?"**

**"Yes, Caius Marcius."**

**"Help me make my brother comfortable."**

**The manservant moved quickly to their side, and soon Kronos was once again safely ensconced in the chair that, with the help of two stout slaves, doubled as his conveyance.  After many years serving the Marcius brothers, Aedinius knew better than to question the sounds of struggle he had heard before his service was required.  The brothers were demanding masters, but fair to their servants.  It had been a terrible tragedy for the household when Volumnius Marcius had lost the use of his legs in a battle with the Celts.  However the brothers wished to compensate for that loss, it was no business of his.**

**Although seated at a level below the other men, Kronos kept his air of command, and Aedinius awaited his wishes.  At his nod, the slave spoke.  "Volumnius Marcius, Caius Marcius, I have brought your clothes for the day."  He gestured toward the two folded rectangles of wool that he had set down beside the chair.**

**Kronos shook his head.  "I shall continue in my tunic for a while.  I won't be going out until later.  But you, brother.  You have a meeting with our friend the senator.  Aedinius, please help Caius Marcius with his toga."**

**"What, by everything fulsome and foul, is *that*?"  Methos' sharp query interrupted Aedinius' movement towards them.**

**"Your new toga, sir?"**

**Methos turned towards his brother, his expression poised between humor and fury.  "Setting me up as a vestal virgin, Volumnius?"  The proffered robe glowed fiercely white in the early morning sun, a pointed contrast with the other cloth's more natural, unbleached ivory.**

**Kronos laughed at the thought, but kept a wary eye on his unpredictable brother.  "I told you, there is talk that you could be Consul."**

**"You're setting me up as a *politician*?"  The scorn in his voice made it clear that Methos would have infinitely preferred the role of vestal, no matter how lacking his qualifications.**

**"How can you dare to speak to me of strategy and yet ignore this obvious step?"  Kronos tried to keep his voice even, unwilling to argue in front of even so old and trusted a servant as Aedinius.**

**Methos turned on Kronos with such anger that Aedinius, although not the focus of that rage, took a step back.  "You do not make *that* plan for me, brother."  Turning slightly, he spoke calmer tones.  "Aedinius, I will be leaving for battle this afternoon.  Fetch my armor and my swords.  The long sword, too.  Go, please."  As the servant hurried across the courtyard, Methos turned back to his brother.  "I'll do my best not to decorate any savage Pictish saddles.  But I'll keep my carnage clean, in battle.  I have no stomach for the sickness of the senate."  With that final hissed avowal, Methos turned on his heel and strode out of the courtyard, back to his own rooms.**

**Kronos grinned slyly, helping himself to a handful of dried apricots from the bowl beside him.  That had gone well.**

 

* * *

**The smoke from the sacked city drifted over the Roman Generals, carrying with it the desolate wails of Corioli's defeated.  The stench of burning flesh mixed with the cleaner scent of smoldering wood, as more buildings joined the conflagration and the wounded and dead burned where they had fallen.**

**"Nobly fought, Caius Marcius."  Titus Lartius spoke with the heavy solemnity of his years and experience.**

**Methos shook his head, busying himself with an attempt to fix his broken cuirass.  "You should rather praise the soldiers of Rome; they wielded the swords."**

**"As did you, my friend.  And your sword stood firm when others wavered.  If it had not been for your leadership, Rome would not have this victory today.  You have achieved and overmatched our goals."**

**"But not met mine."**

**"I don't understand."**

**"I have not met *my* goals.  Where is the Pict?  I saw him once through the red mist of battle-rage, but before I could meet with him, I was pulled off to fight a group of his men.  I want him, damn all!  Saw you him?"**

**Lartius nodded slowly.  "//On safeguard he came to me; and did curse against the Volsces, for they had so vilely yielded the town//."**

**Methos glanced up, eager. "//Spoke he of me?//"**

**"//He did, my lord.//"**

**"//How? What?//"  The hunger in his tone sent an uneasy thrill scuttling up Lartius' spine.  This went beyond mere hatred for an enemy.**

**Of course, it had been the same with the Pict, when that general had spoken of Caius Marcius.  "//How often he had met you, sword to sword; that of all things upon the earth he hated your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes to hopeless restitution, so he might be call'd your vanquisher.//"**

**"//I wish I had a cause to seek him there, to oppose his hatred fully.//"**

**Titus Lartius stepped back, uncertain in the face of his colleague's passion.  "Likely you will meet him again--you have fought him before.  But not today."**

**"Yes today.  *Now*.  I want the Pict, and I will find him.  Keep the men in readiness, should the Volsces rally.  I'm for the hunt."**

**"Caius Marcius, think a moment!"  Lartius pulled his hand back quickly at one glare from the cold green eyes.  "You were wounded in battle: I see blood through the tear in your tunic."**

**Methos slipped his left hand up under his armor and pulled it out slicked red with gore.  "My old friend--why do you think we wear red tunics?"  Lartius shook his head.  "To hide the blood!"  His smile was sword-slash in the bloody wash of his face.  "Don't worry, Lartius, //my work hath not yet warmed me//.  It would hurt me far worse to forego this chance of finding the Pict."  With that, he vaulted lightly over the ruined wall before them and ran toward the carnage.  Lartius' anxious watch over the young fool was soon obscured by smoke.**

**Had the Pict been mortal, Methos never would have found him in the chaos of the burning city.  But as he pushed farther into the ruins, he began to sense the seductive tease of another immortal's Presence.  He lapped it up like aged wine, savoring the dark, loamy taste of it in his mind.  It spoke of wild highland storms, cold streams, bitter conquest, and the man himself, many times his opponent and yet still living.  Turning the corner of the blackened shell of a large estate, he was not surprised to find the Pict waiting for him across the courtyard.**

**Wearing nothing but a rough kilt and his sword belt, Duncan made an exotic figure, half-obscured by low wreaths of acrid smoke.  As he shifted position, the writhing figures inked onto his body became tongues of fire, snakes, and other powerful familiars.  His long, dark hair hung in tangles past his shoulders; in the whole potent image, the only clean line was the sharp brilliance of his blade.**

**Methos spoke first, punctuating his words with slow swings of his long sword.  "//I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee worse than a promise-breaker.//"**

**"//We hate alike://" the Pict laughed, his teeth flashing white against the blue maze marked on his face.  "//Not Africa owns a serpent I abhor more than thy fame and envy.//" Moving into a ready crouch, he ordered brusquely, "//Fix thy foot.//"**

**They shared a fierce, savage grin, rejoicing in their essential union and then attacked.  Not for them the formal, regimented fight of the Roman war machine.  This was the clean purity of two warriors who were themselves weapons.  Brutal beauty in human form, their movements a deadly dance as they circled.  First blood was achieved by both simultaneously, and they backed off momentarily, eyes bright with passion and pain.**

**Duncan put his lips to his own wound and raised his reddened mouth like a lion feasting on a kill.   Methos' eyes widened in surprise quickly followed by appreciation.  He laughed, and the Pict joined him, their voices a cry to the glory of the battle and the fire in their blood.  The fight resumed; they were almost perfectly matched.  But, as with their fights before, Methos began to gain the upper hand.  A strike here, gouging a gory furrow across the Pict's ribs.  A thrust there, leaving a bloody hole in the man's shoulder.**

**Finally, Methos separated Duncan from his sword.  The barbarian's exultant gaze never shifted, even as he backed slowly away from the advancing Roman.  When Methos was close to striking distance, the Pict suddenly dashed his hand towards his opponent's eyes, splattering a handful of his own blood across Methos' face.  With a loud shout, Duncan flung himself upon Methos--**

**\--only to find himself impaled on the Roman's short sword, the tip of the gladius extending half a foot behind his back, the hilt pressed tight into his chest.  Falling to his knees, he spoke for the last time, his words almost unintelligible through blood and agony.**

**"Do it."**

**Methos straightened slowly, dragging his arm across his face to clear his eyes of most of the blood.  He rested his long sword lightly on the Pict's shoulder, readying himself for the fatal blow and the exquisite agony of the Quickening that followed.  He met the Pict's anguished gaze, read there a farewell and a comrade's challenge.**

**With the sword still poised delicately against Duncan's throat, Methos leaned forward and kissed the Pict.  Ignoring the taste of blood and death, he breathed a soft curse into his opponent's mouth.  "But I would miss you.  I am ever loath to lose a good enemy."  Covering Duncan's mouth with his own, he muffled the Pict's scream that followed the passage of the blade back through his body.  Stepping away from the dying man, he paused for only a moment before turning to rejoin his army.**

**Straggling through Corioli in a search for their wounded, a group of Volscian soldiers were horrified to see their General staggering toward them, covered in blood.**

**"My lord!  Let us--"**

**The Pict shrugged them away.  "Off.  Leave off, damn you!"**

**"But sir--"**

**"It's not my blood.  A Roman fell on me as he died; I'm only winded."  Still, he allowed one of the soldiers, a man he had personally trained, to stand close and offer support.**

**"Sir?"  The voice from outside the circle was young, and the face, when Duncan looked closely, even younger.  "What do we do now?"**

**"Now?"  Duncan's voice had a bitter edge that raised the hackles of the other men.  "Now, we salvage what's left of Corioli.  But soon--soon, we hunt those Roman dogs to their lair."  He snarled fiercely, baring his fangs at the future.  "And their leader, Caius Marcius--//By the elements, if e'er again I meet him beard to beard, he's mine, or I am his//."**

 

* * *

**The Roman army marched in close ranks up the wide avenue to the capitol.  Throwing flowers and shouting praises, the crowd cheered its returning heroes.  The soldiers shouted back, giving thanks to the gods and lauding the Roman Generals.  They had given Caius Marcius the honorific Coriolanus, in gratitude for his leadership in their conquest, and cries of "Hail, Caius Marcius Coriolanus!" echoed in the dry air as Methos climbed the steps to where his brother was waiting with the senators and tribunes.**

**Under the pretext of bowing for his older brother's blessing, Methos whispered, "Just what I need...another name."  Kronos slapped him proudly on the back, bidding him rise and acknowledge the politicians witnessing their reunion.**

**Courtesies completed, Methos' hopes that he could return home to rid himself of the grime of their long march were confounded as the senators began speaking.  Again the subject was his potential as a politician, and he requested leave to let them finish their discussions in private.**

**A white-haired senator, known for his love of wine, women, and the sound of his own voice, interrupted him.  "//Sit, Coriolanus; never shame to hear what you have nobly done.//  Again you bear wounds for the glory of Rome."**

**Methos stifled a sigh.  "//Your Honors' pardon: I had rather have my wounds to heal again than hear say how I got them.//"  He spared a moment to glare at Kronos, who was observing his predicament with obvious humor.**

**"I hope we're not making you uncomfortable?" asked the senator, in a voice that indicated his obvious enjoyment of his victim's discomfort.**

**"//No, sir; yet oft, when blows have made me stay, I fled from words.//  Excuse me, please."  Methos stepped forward, intending to push his way through the crowd and return home to the comforts of his villa.**

**"Stay, Coriolanus."  A tribune spoke up, his pinched face and thin lips pursed in a mockery of an attempt at graciousness.  "The people stand ready to hail you Consul.  All you need do is follow our custom--show them the scars you have taken in Rome's defense, and petition their approval."**

**The senator agreed eagerly.  "Yes!  And we shall describe it!"  Striking an oratory pose, he declaimed, "//The warlike service he has done, consider; think upon the wounds his body bears, which show like graves i' the holy churchyard.//"**

**"//Scratches with briers, scars to move laughter only.//" Methos shrugged, shooting an irritable glance at Kronos, who was red with suppressed mirth.**

**The tribune stepped forward, his face paling.  "You mock us, Coriolanus.  But it is our custom, and your pride shows ill in the face of the people."  The crowd was beginning to fall silent; all intent on the drama unfolding before them.**

**"I have no pride, here.  In fact, I bear so little pride that I would pass off this 'great honor' you do me.  Let me remain a citizen and a soldier--it is all I am and all I am fit to be."**

**"You need only show your scars, taken for Rome--"**

**Methos snarled at the man, forcing him back a step.  "I'll show you what I took for Rome.  The burning rubble of Corioli stands witness to my taking.  View those scars, if you will."**

**"Come now, brother.  It's not that much to ask."  Kronos' voice cut like blood-slicked steel through the senators' muttering.  Methos froze, staring at his brother as if he had seen death in the mirror.  At the glittering challenge in his brother's eyes, Methos smiled grimly.**

**"Now, brother, you will make me blush.  Let me keep my modesty."**

**Kronos was grinning fully now, teeth bared in a travesty of a loving smile.  "Nay, brother.  Our noble friends have the right of it.  Drop your pride...and your tunic."  With that, Methos lips quirked, but the humor passed quickly.**

**The rat-faced tribune interjected again.  "With your pride and scorn, you turn //yourself into a power tyrannical; for which you are a traitor to the people!//"**

**"//How!  Traitor!//"  His fingers itched for the man's throat, and Methos could not refrain from raising his voice.**

**"Now, Caius Marcius," the tribune fell back a step.  "Speak temperately.  You know I speak with the voice of the people and as their representative."**

**Methos leaned in over the narrow-faced scoundrel.  "//The fires i' the lowest hell fold in the people!  Call me their traitor!--thou injurious tribune!//"  He forced himself not to reach for his sword.  "//Thou liest unto thee with a voice as free as I do pray the gods.//"**

**Gesturing to three guards to come to his aid, the tribune turned to address the crowd.  "//Mark you this, people?//"**

**Primed by their jealousy of the proud General, it did not take much urging from the tribune before the people were crying out against their erstwhile hero.  "//To the rock, to the rock with him!//"**

**"Brother?"  Methos reached out a hand, his expression eloquent with anger and despair.  Kronos' smile faded, but his look of fierce concentration did not waver.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Methos was not destined to know his response.  The tribune's guards grabbed him, tearing his gladius from his belt and pushing him back into the enraged crowd.  The army cried out in confusion and betrayal, as they watched their beloved General shoved through the masses of people.  At the outskirts of the crowd, Methos wrenched himself from the grasp of many hands and turned to face his abusers.**

**As Caius Marcius turned on them, a beast at bay, the men and women of the crowd drew back.  The tenuous stalemate lasted only long enough for one of the men to grab a stone.  Within seconds others had joined him, and Methos was forced to run, battered and bleeding, through a hail of death.**

**A stone clipped him on the back of the neck and he staggered, the street before him fading behind a spangled curtain.  He forced himself to keep running, ignoring the bite of a broken rib and the savage baying of the pursuing crowd, deliriously drunk on the pleasure of weakness empowered.  Most of the masses ceased their chase at the town limits, and Methos had the visceral pleasure of turning on his last pursuers and reminding them that the hunted wolf still had teeth.  He cleaned his long sword on the rough tunic of the last man killed, then resumed his journey into exile at a more deliberate pace, cradling his ribs until they could have a chance to heal.**

**After hours of walking, he stopped at a small creek that ran through an old olive grove, dusty green in the late afternoon heat.  The blood from his wounds in battle and in *politics*--he shared a feral grin with his reflection--made the small rivulet run crimson for a moment, like a curse of gods he had long forgotten.  He crouched in the water for a time, feeling the cool fingers of water about his feet and ankles and wondering where to go from here.  He had his wish now: he was free of Rome.**

**Should he forge on to the desert, let its vastness sate his soul as he had suggested to his brother...**

***His brother*.  He snarled, clenching a fist and watching the blood from his palm snake in scarlet streamers through the crystalline water.  How to understand his brother's betrayal?  Kronos knew, of course, that Methos had no scars to show the Romans.  Was this a dangerous joke gone too far--or something more sinister?**

**Recent flirtations with philosophy aside, he preferred not to think on it.  He knew that friends--*brothers*--could turn.  Just as he knew that crowds could become maddened and strengthened by blood lust.  'Not the first time I've been stoned.  And surely not the last time a friend will betray me.'  He stood quickly, showering the weeds on both banks with water.  Enough of false friends and motivations.  He hadn't been sane long enough to let his mind twist down that treacherous path.**

**'Forsaking false friends, I'll turn instead to a faithful enemy.  //Foes, whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep to take the one the other, by some chance, shall grow dear friends and interjoin their issues.//"  He began dressing again, donning only his rough tunic and hiding his sword under his cloak.  The armor could rot here beside the quiet stream.  "//This enemy town I'll enter; if he slay me, he does fair justice; if he give me way, I'll do his country service.//"**

 

* * *

**Inside the hastily erected lorica that surrounded the Volsces' camp, a sullen quiet pervaded the harsh night.  There could be no comfort in the face of their ignominious defeat; the terms of the surrender left little honor.**

**Even Adrian was avoiding the Pict, usefulness only weak assurance in the face of his master's fury.  The Volscian soldiers whispered to each other that the General was perhaps mad--he fought demons in his home, slashing and parrying in a silent parody of battle, but with no opponent.  Adrian knew that this was merely his master's way.  That knowledge did not make him any more inclined, however, to linger near the inner sanctum of the Pict's house.**   
**Thus, there was no one to challenge Methos as he followed the strengthening sense of Presence to the Pict's villa.  At the entrance to the inner courtyard, he paused, allowing himself a moment to savor the harmonics of a Presence he had finally characterized as gold and bronze.  His first sight of the Pict did nothing to dispel that fancy; he was a statue carved from light and movement, the patterns inked on his skin adding a fourth dimension to the beauty of his fierce dance.  Methos found himself envying the invisible opponent who had roused so fierce a response in the Pict.**

**Duncan finally slowed his practice, stopping with his sword pointed unwavering at his visitor's heart.  "My servants seem to have missed your arrival.  You may, of course, announce yourself."**

**Methos felt a ferocious thrill of kinship with the man, who flaunted that haughty courtesy in the face of one he had every reason to believe his deadliest enemy.  Such courage was its own reward--if the Pict killed him now, so be it.**

**"It is //a name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, and harsh in sound to thine.//"**

**Duncan laughed sharply.  "//Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, thou show'st a noble vessel.//  Caius Marcius?"**

**"In recent times.  Among our own kind--Methos.  And you?"**

**"Duncan, the Pict."**

**"Your family name?"**

**"My tribe drove me from their company when I awoke on my pyre--I do not carry their name."**

**Methos nodded his understanding.  His presence seemed to require more explanation, however, and he began the speech he had been rehearsing since he buried his armor by the river.  "//I have done to thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may my surname, Coriolanus.//"  Duncan winced at the reference, but did not interrupt.  Forcing his voice into cold acceptance, Methos came to the shaft that still quivered in his heart.  "//The painful service, the extreme dangers, and the drops of blood shed for my thankless country, are requited but with that surname; a good memory, and witness of the malice and displeasure which thou shouldst bear me: only that name remains.//"**

**Duncan had lowered his weapon slightly upon Methos' first words, and now he placed it down beside him, within easy reach.  Leaning forward, he focused solely on the suppressed misery in Methos' tale as the Roman continued, "//The cruelty and envy of the people, permitted by our dastard nobles who have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, and suffer'd me by the voice of slaves to be whipped out of Rome.//"**

**Their long enmity set aside, Duncan moved to stand by Methos.  That such a warrior should be so treated offended every conviction.  Methos was staring blindly into the moonlit darkness, and Duncan had time to examine the face of his enemy, for once not obscured by blood and soot.  It was finely-boned, with high cheekbones framing witchy green-gold eyes.  His thin lips were pressed tight against swelling anger.  And underlying every word, the sweeping crash of his Presence subjected Duncan to a disorienting rush of sensation that quickly banked to soft stimulation.  Duncan felt a calm surety steal over him, and with it came an explanation for his many years' delay in this dusty waste so far from the noble ranges of his youth.**

**His emotions once again tightly reined, Methos resumed his discourse.  "//Now, this extremity hath brought me to thy hearth: not out of hope, mistake me not,//" he laughed bitterly.  "//Not to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' the world I would have avoided thee; but in mere spite, to be full quit of those my banishers, stand I before thee here.//" The mention of his banishment at the hands of the mob and the behest of the senate loosed a slow flush across his features.  "//Then if thou hast a heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight and make my misery serve thy turn: so use it that my revengeful services may prove as benefits to thee; for I will fight against my canker'd country with the spleen of all the under fiends.//"**

**"What?"  Duncan felt as if he again bore the Roman's blade in his body.  "You would fight against Rome?  With me?"**

**"Never more willing."  And more eager to fight beside this man than to avenge himself, Methos realized in surprise.**

**"Why should I trust you?"**

**"No reason."  Methos shook his head.  "//If so be thou dar'st not this, then, in a word//--"  He reached slowly under his cloak and pulled out his sword, still sheathed.  He could not miss Duncan's quick glance towards his own weapon, and he smiled at their mutual lack of trust.  No reason, indeed.  Holding the sword by the sheathed blade, he presented the hilt to Duncan.  "//I present my throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; which not to cut would show thee but a fool, since I have ever follow'd thee with hate, drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, and cannot live but to thy shame, unless it be to do thee service.//"**

**At this offer of fealty, time seemed to slow.  Duncan felt as if he were trapped in endless rapture, his enemy standing weaponless before him.  And yet...he made no move to take the sword.  Methos' breathing was accelerated, his high color like a memory of blood, his eyes bright and wet.  Duncan had a sudden vision of the savage eagles of his homeland, swift to the kill, shying from man's hand.  But when trained to the hunt, no greater weapon could a hunter find than such a noble spirit.**

**Pushing aside the sword, Duncan reached with slow deliberation to gently cup Methos' face in his hands.  At their last meeting, blood and pain had been their only binding, hatred their shared unity.  Now--the chance to have this half-wild creature at his side, to fight as one, one campaign against one sworn enemy.  He stroked his thumbs over the steel-smooth skin below those enthralling eyes.  In thrall...**

**"Methos!"  His gentle, taming moves were thrown aside in a sudden urge to grasp the man, feel that he indeed stood before him, offering...everything.  Duncan laughed with joy, pulling Methos close in his harsh grasp.  "//Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart a root of ancient envy.//"  At the answering wildness in the Roman's responsive laughter, Duncan threw his head back and cried his victory.**

**Free of hatred, free of enmity, they stood frozen in the moment, hands locked, eyes devouring each other.  Duncan lowered his voice to a deep growl that lit an answering flame in the man he held.  "//Let me twine mine arms about that body, where against my grained ash an hundred times hath broke and scar'd the moon with splinters//."  He stroked his hand lightly over the spot where, on their second meeting, he had managed to lodge his javelin point in Methos' side.  In response, Methos thrust forward in blatant challenge.  Duncan traced his hand lower.  "//Here I clip the anvil of my sword,//" they shared a smoldering grin, then Duncan leaned forward and whispered against Methos' lips, "//and do contest as hotly and as nobly with thy love as ever in ambitious strength I did contend against thy valour.//"**

**"Duncan!"  Methos groaned, dropping his head back and baring his throat like a wolf to his pack mate.  Duncan tasted the spot where the blood throbbed closest to the surface, drinking in the warm salt scent of him.  Moving up to the hollow behind his ear, Duncan murmured, "//Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man sighed truer breath; but that I see thee here, thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart than when I first my wedded mistress saw bestride my threshold.//"  Indeed, he could barely recall her face, that child bride he had left a demon's widow, shrieking her fear beside his empty pyre.  The strong form beneath his hands, the muscled arms wrapped tight around his ribs were his only reality.**

**Gods, that strength!  "//Why, thou Mars! I tell thee we have a power!//"  He paused, gasping in reaction to Methos' questing fingers as they traced the patterns on his breast.  "//Thou hast beat me out//;" each past conflict seemed to take on new significance, and Duncan entertained himself with memories of a lithe, bloodied body wreaking its will upon him.  As if sharing those same memories, Methos pushed him back against a wall, sighing in joy at Duncan's easy submission.  Pleasure seemed to have rendered Methos speechless, but Duncan felt his own avowals swell within him like an inescapable tide.  "//I have nightly since dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me; we have been down together in my sleep//--" at Methos' low groan, Duncan chuckled.  Not so sweet, enemy mine.  "//We have been down together...unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat, and wak'd half dead with nothing.//"**

**Not tonight.  Tonight they would have everything, and wake tomorrow with nothing less than all.  But after tomorrow..."Methos!"  Duncan tried to catch his lover's gaze.  "//Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all from twelve to seventy; and, pouring war into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, like a bold flood o'erbear.//"**

**Methos raised his head, seemingly lost.  Had he forgotten his vengeance in this release and conquest of animosity?  Duncan frowned, bemused.**

**Methos' swollen lips curved into an ardent smile.  His eyes were again drawn to the love marks he had made on Duncan's skin, fast disappearing into the inky patterns under the influence of immortal healing.  Lowering his head, Methos managed only a strangled, "//You bless me, gods!//" before returning to his task.**

**Duncan relinquished all thoughts of vengeance, tactics, and strategy.  He was no General; he led no army.  All that existed was the tight, hot hold of his beloved enemy.**

 

* * *

**Waking before dawn, Duncan opened his eyes to find Methos still asleep, worn out from a day of treachery and betrayal and a night of blissful discovery.  He looked pale.  Well, being stoned near to death could have that effect, even on an immortal.  Moving quietly to the door, Duncan wrapped a short kilt around himself as he summoned his servant.**

**As Duncan requested food and drink, Adrian stood with well-trained poise, pointedly indifferent to the sight of a stranger sprawled in his master's bed.  Before dismissing the boy, the Pict reached out and grasped his chin firmly.  "Adrian.  Let it be known that Caius Marcius now fights for the Volscian cause, my equal at the head of the army."  Duncan patted his cheek lightly.  "See what reciprocal information you can get me, with that bit of gossip for bait."**

**The boy's eyes remained resolutely still.  "Yes, my lord.  That only."**

**Duncan smiled.  "Yes.  *Only*."**

**Adrian bowed low.  "Yes, master," he said, holding the position to emphasize his loyalty before leaving as quietly as he had come.**

**Allowing the curtains to swing closed after the slave's departure, Duncan turned back to his newfound treasure.  Too much to hope for, that Methos might have slept through the noise just outside his chamber.  No General--no *immortal* could long survive if he slept through movement around him.**

**"Sleep well?"  Duncan's solicitous query received only a grimace in answer, as Methos stretched catlike across the wide pallet.  Adrian's return forestalled any further discussion, and for a while they sat in companionable silence, savoring the ripe, crumbling goat-cheese, the fresh-baked flat-breads, the large, tender olives, and the honey-sweetened wine.  And if the meal was not all that Duncan would have preferred to offer his guest, it was, after all, the fault of the Roman and his army.**

**Warming his goblet in his hands, Duncan watched in awe as the dawn's first rays lit Methos' skin with a pale, pure glow.  Reaching out, he traced the sharp edge of the unflawed collarbone, trying to forget the feel of it breaking under his hand so long ago.  Methos smiled lazily and, in apology and acknowledgment, rested his hand on Duncan's thigh where Adrian had wrenched free a Roman gladius.**

**That time was over.  Duncan covered Methos' hand and watched the rising sun flush his pale skin a delicate pink, much as he had looked the night before, sated and calm.  "You don't look Roman."**

**Methos shrugged.  "I'm probably not.  For that matter, you don't look like the Picts I've known.  What think you, did our mothers barter us, one to another, at birth?"  He trailed light fingers over Duncan's golden tan skin.**

**"Your mother was blessed by the bargain, then.  Do you remember her?"**

**"The woman who raised me?"  Methos clarified, and Duncan nodded.  "No.  I don't remember much past ten years ago."**

**"Your first death?"  Not unheard of, but unlikely, considering Methos' phenomenal fighting skills.**

**"No.  But I don't remember that either.  My teacher was murdered.  Holy ground, I believe.  Something happened--I don't remember.  Kronos found me wandering the steppes; it took him decades to tame me, longer still to remind me I was a man."**

**"Kronos?"  Duncan didn't like the flash of jealousy that shot through him at the name.**

**"My brother."  At Duncan's look, Methos clarified, "One of *us*.  He is in Rome now."**

**"I never sensed him in battle."**

**Methos stifled a sigh as he reached across to take another handful of olives.  "He took a sword in the back, early in our career as 'returned Roman citizens.'  It was seen by too many.  I'm the only one to see him walk since that day."**

**"By the gods," said Duncan, shuddering.  "How does he stomach it?"**

**"I know not, nor why.  His ambitions and mine have differed of late."  Methos' mouth tightened in a grimace of remembrance.**

**"Does he plan to join you in exile?"  Scowling, Duncan considered the many ways to have a man killed between Rome and Corioli.  Methos' abrupt movement was his only warning that the discussion was drawing blood.**

**"I don't *know*.  Nor do I know why he let me be trapped by a false tribune, stood by as I was banished, watched me stoned from the city.  Why we stayed or why he still remains.  For the first time since I have known him, however, I have some say in my own fate, and it does not revolve around his.  This endless inquiry into his motives is useless!"**

**Duncan recognized with a sense of dull inevitability his own lustful reaction to Methos' anger.  They had been enemies far longer than lovers...but who was to say where the one ended and the other began?**

**"You're right, forget Kronos.  What do you want, then?"**

**Methos laughed.  "I haven't been free of him long enough to feel confident in that answer, sadly.  I wanted to move on, and I still do.  Do I want revenge?  I can help you sack Rome--that is your desire."**

**"Rome?"  Duncan finished the last sweet dregs of his wine.  "I suppose I want Rome."**

**"What else do you want?" asked Methos, grinning in sly anticipation.**

**"For the past many years, through endless battles, I remember only one desire."  Duncan stroked the back his fingers down Methos' throat.  "To find and kill you."**

**Leaning over, Methos pushed him down upon the bed.  "And did you enjoy it?  I seem to remember dying more than once last night."**

**Duncan laughed, throwing his head back in blatant challenge, enjoying their playful lovemaking.  Methos nipped lightly at his throat, a provocative twinge of discomfort that sent an erotic thrill through him.  As Methos continued down his chest, Duncan realized that Methos' agile tongue was delicately tracing along the complex blue tracks of his tattoos.  He pushed himself up on his elbows in order to watch Methos' progress.**

**Reaching the feathered end of one long coiling line, Methos looked up.  "These are fading."**

**Duncan hummed softly, part agreement and part appreciation of the skilled work of Methos' hands, out of his line of sight.  "Since my first death."**

**"A century?"**

**"More like three score years."**

**Methos delicately tasted a blue sunburst on his right shoulder.  "They'll be gone in another century.  A pity.  They are very beautiful and make you look most impressively fierce, my Pict.  I'll miss--" he broke off, abashed, and returned to his feast.**

**Duncan relished the slow sweep of certainty that rose within him.  Methos might be hesitant to voice it, but Duncan knew.  Knew that he would have someone in his life who remembered him as the painted Pict, long after the patterns of his life's record had faded.  He would have someone, in fact, who seemed to be intent in mapping every single pattern with explicit oral detail.**

**Well, he was never one to stand in the way of cartographic progress.  Enjoying the loving attention, he yielded to a teasing urge.  "Those other Picts you mentioned--how well did you know them?"**

**"Not this well, barbarian!"  Methos chuckled.  "I was more familiar with their southern neighbors."  He paused, remembering, then said haltingly in a Celtic dialect, "Understand you me when I speak thus, highlander?"**

**Duncan froze, gripping Methos' wrists tightly and replying in the same language:  "We avoided your thieving kinsmen when we could, lowlander."  He grinned in amazed pleasure and then returned to the local tongue. "Where did you learn that?"**

**"Again, I know not."  Methos pressed his teeth teasingly into the muscle of Duncan's shoulder.  "We could try to figure it out..."**

**"I have a better idea," Duncan demurred, releasing Methos' hands to continue his own exploration of his lover's body.**

**As Methos lips and teeth repaid the compliment, Duncan thought about traveling, languages, moving on.  Perhaps they could figure out Methos' past--and *their* goals--together.**

**But for now, his goals were very close to hand.  And there was nowhere else he wanted to be.**

 

* * *

**And yet, not three weeks later, they were camped outside Romes walls.  The soggy wetland of Campus Martius would not have been the Pict's first choice for his garrison, but he had to admit that Methos was right: the men did seem to take comfort in the proximity of the altar of Mars.  When they mentioned the good omen of having Caius of the clan *Marcius* as their general, Methos merely laughed.  "Kronos chose the name," he confided to Duncan.  "At the time I thought it was strategy--now I think it was hubris."  The rustic baths were also a blessing, the men enjoying a chance to wash and relax after the four-day march from Corioli.**

**Nestled as they were in the curve of the Tiber, their location could have become a trap.  But they had taken the city by surprise, and Rome had fallen quickly into a siege defense.  Duncan's spies told him that the knowledge of Caius Marcius' role in the siege was an especially damaging blow to the populace's morale.  The Roman eagle was proving his worth.**

**'Proving his worth in more ways than one', Duncan reflected, watching Methos make his way through the camp, discussing supplies and logistics with Duncan's subordinates.  When Methos reached his side, Duncan was ready to hear his advice for their next move.**

**Duncan pointed towards the city walls.  "//Set down,--as best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st thy country's strength and weakness,--thine own ways; whether to knock against the gates of Rome, or rudely visit them in parts remote//."  He turned.  "Is it to be the gates, or do we go over the walls?"**

**Methos' gaze sharpened, and his expression reminded Duncan of their philosophical debates and discussions of futures free of warfare.  That same look of intense concentration as he had shown while explaining Pythagorus now heralded Methos' consideration of a plan to destroy his former home.  "The gates you see in front of us," he gestured from left to right, "Salutaris, Sanqualis, Frontinalis--they will all be heavily guarded now."**

**"A besieging army often has that effect."  Duncan grinned at Methos' grimace of irritation.**

**"In its position just around the hill, Porta Carmentalis is slightly isolated from those others."  Methos sank to his haunches, grabbing a stick to mark a crude map in the dirt.  "I suggest a fierce attack at Carmentalis."**

**"It's too close, they'll be able to reinforce it."**

**"Exactly.  We stage a false attack there, no more than a fifth of our total encampment.  Another fifth, very showy, will make their way along the walls past Salutaris to Collina."**

**"While the rest go the opposite way..." Duncan grinned in fierce anticipation.**

**"...to Caelimontana and Querquetulan.  Exactly!  I know the commanders at those gates.  Any threat to Collina will prompt them to send reinforcements.  We almost lost the city through Collina; it was before my time, but the memory still poisons their thinking.  Each moving force will have about four miles to march.  We plan the times of the attacks, coordinate responses so as to capitalize on their confusion.  By evening we will strike at the heart of the city.  And Rome will be yours."  Methos offered the victory to Duncan like a gift.  His own vengeance would also come of this, but Methos seemed to consider that unimportant.  Taking his arm in a warrior's grip, Duncan acknowledged his debt.  Methos merely smiled.**

**The plan was sound; Methos' inside knowledge was proving invaluable.  Duncan strode off to begin the final preparations, leaving Methos staring idly down at his scratches in the dirt.  He reached out and slowly passed his hand over the crude map of Rome, wiping the city back to dust.  By nightfall he would once again be within the hated walls of Rome.**

**And yet, as the sun dropped down towards the horizon, the Volsces were still camped in the muddy flats of Mars.  A messenger from the city, under assurance of safe-passage, once again traversed the distance from the walls to the Generals' tent.  Considering his approach, Duncan turned to Methos.  "Will you entertain one last suit?"**

**"By Mars' spear, we shall attack if only to shut these politicians' mouths."  Methos spat the words at the cowering messenger.  "I did not yield to the tribunes or the senate, what further plea for peace can await my ringing ears?"  He paced the inside of the tent, tiring Duncan with just the sight of that relentless energy.**

**"Your brother craves safe passage."**

**Methos' pacing stopped so abruptly that the tent seemed to momentarily move in compensation for his stillness.  "My brother..."**

**"Volumnius Marcius will plead with you, for peace and for Rome's safety.  He asks me to remind you that you cannot dismiss your fraternal duties."**

**"Cannot?  *Cannot*, little man?"  The messenger, trembling in the face of death, fell to his knees weeping soundlessly.  Methos stood, deep in thought.  How could he turn his brother away without a hearing?  He glanced at Duncan, and the Pict shook his head in tense warning.  A long pause, and then Duncan read a decision and an apology in those green-gold eyes as Methos turned back to the messenger.  "I will see Volumnius Marcius."**

**In the hour that passed after Methos' decision, there was no further communication between the generals.  Duncan scowled, and Methos paced.  And the army grew restless at rumors of discord between their leaders.**

**Methos finally left the tent to cross the field between the camp and the meeting point.  The men carrying Kronos' chair set him down gently and then stepped back to give the brothers time to speak.**

**With a gesture that must have looked very convincing to the senators lining the Roman walls, Kronos clasped his hands prayerfully and said, "You treacherous whore!"**

**Methos closed his eyes briefly.  "Brother."**

**"You would lead an army against me?"**

**"I lead an army against *Rome*."  Methos stepped forward.  "You are free to go, as always.  Free to leave her strangling confines and sycophantic politics.  Free of me, even.  That must be a relief, after all the trouble I caused you."**

**"That trouble was your *training*.  Do you forget all I taught you, animal?  Do you forget that it was I who taught you how to speak, how to use a knife, how to comb your hair, how to take a piss without wetting yourself?"**

**Methos' face was as blank as new-quarried stone.  "No.  Nor do I forget how you told me to display my scars.  How you stood by and watched me stoned, *again*."**

**"It was good practice for your very near future.  Rome has made you soft, prating on about your noble enemy.  Mooning over that same barbarian who stands scowling in the distance, jealous of our loving reunion."**

**Methos flinched, but did not yield to the temptation to look back.  Kronos' voice continued, merciless in its implacable rage.  "I will not plead for you in the name of the people, although that is why I was 'sent' to speak with you.  We both know they mean nothing.  I won't talk to you of the women of our household, lulled by years of fair treatment.  I won't mention your young philosopher-slave, though I'm sure the Volsces would find other uses for him than you did.  I won't even speak of the soldiers of Rome, to whom you once owed allegiance and for whom you once fought."**

**At each word, Methos seemed to grow paler, but his eyes blazed.  Kronos bared his teeth.  "But I will command you in my name.  Because you owe me this:  everything you are now--your strength, your skills, even your foolish philosophical pretensions--you owe to me.  I *made* you, Methos.  And I can unmake you just as easily; you remember your taming, surely."  Methos forced himself not to shudder.  "So we both know that you will return to that barbarian with a suit for peace.  But let us give the masses a good show, shall we?  Let us break a few hearts with this tragic scene of brother against brother."**

**Using only his arms, Kronos pushed up out of the chair and propelled himself onto the ground in front of Methos, landing in an awkward yet dramatic sprawl.  Against his will, Methos found himself kneeling beside the fallen man.  "Don't do this," he hissed.**

**"That'll move the circus crowd, don't you think?  I can practically hear the senators composing their orations now."**

**"Get up.  Stop this."  Desperation choked Methos' words.**

**"Oh no.  Only you can stop this, Methos.  The show continues until you promise me peace and return to break the news to the painted puppy."**

**They glared at each other for a long silence, Methos crouched low over Kronos' seemingly broken form.  Sharing a glare, the brothers cursed each other silently with their eyes.  The Campus Martius grew eerily silent, as even the winds seemed to hold their breath for the outcome of this drama.  A thousand eyes watched, while two armies waited.**

**"Damn you to all the hells we have ever known, brother.  This frees me."  When he spoke at last, Methos sounded defeated--broken.  "//The gods look down, and this unnatural scene they laugh at.//"  He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, moaning softly.  "//You have won a happy victory to Rome//" he whispered harshly, "but you have killed me."**

**Kronos' teeth flashed with rapacious delight.  "Yes."**

 

* * *

**Duncan had his answer in the subtle shift in Methos' walk: he seemed to carry defeat on his back like a hex.  Before Methos could begin to press the suit, Duncan raised a hand.  "You'll have your peace.  Take that message back to your 'brother', and direct your feet so that our paths do not again cross."**

**"He knows already; I gave him his answer there."**

**Glaring at his recent love and longtime enemy, Duncan forced his panting breaths to slow, constraining himself to a semblance of calm.  Turning away, he muttered to the oblivious gods, "//As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labor of our great action.//"  He shook his head, swallowing hard past the bitter gall that rose at that thought.  Allowing himself one final burning glance at the noble, deceitful features of his enemy-love, he turned sharply on his heel, leaving Methos to explain his actions to the waiting Volscian army.**

**Methos watched him go, his mind roiling with harsh curses, all directed inwards.  He could spare no time for reflection, however.  Nowhere does rumor have faster flight than in an army encampment; Methos could feel the men moving in to surround him.**

**Knowing the eventual outcome of this scene, Methos turned to face one of their leaders, a man he had discussed tactics with just hours earlier.  The soldier spoke in measured tones.  "Caius Marcius *Coriolanus*."  His honorific was a curse in the Volscian's mouth.**

**Time to die.  "//Cut me to pieces, Volsces!//"  Methos laughed harshly, drawing his gladius and turning in a slow circle.  "//Stain all your edges on me.//"  They were already wielding swords and knives, and the circle was shrinking.  Methos threw out the last bloody challenge.  "//If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, that, like an eagle in a dovecote, I flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli!//"**

**With the cry of a wolf-pack, the soldiers descended.  Striking at the men before him, Methos felt the burning pain of the first knife in his back as an almost mild counterpoint to the dreadful loss of Duncan's fading Presence.  His fight, his death--alone, as ever.**

**Standing on the banks of the Tiber, Duncan heard the first sounds of conflict coming from the camp behind him.  Good.  Let the Volsces avenge him.  Let them punish Methos for his disloyalty.  Let them wipe out Duncan's memories of hot nights and cool mornings, laughing plans and murmured confidences.  Let the army betrayed take vengeance for the lover deceived.  He stood staring blindly at the river's torrent, pretending the clashes of metal on metal and the cries of agony were merely the sounds of river birds calling.**

**Methos' Presence flickered, ghosting over Duncan's skin in a fading storm.  When the end came, it came quickly--all sense of the man vanishing like a dying scream.**

**Shouting an angry curse, Duncan turned and ran back through the camp, to be stopped only by an outflung hand.  A soldier stood before him, half-blocking his view of the bloody mess before him.  "He lies there, General.  //Tread not upon him.//"  The soldier met his gaze briefly, before dropping his eyes.**

**Heavy with misery, Duncan moved to stand--then kneel--beside the broken body.  A gentle hand reached out to close the staring eyes; Duncan's touch lingered, tracing the cheekbones, the brow.  Dropping lower, his hand rested on the bloodied chest, feeling the deceptive heat of the sun-warmed armor.  Methos' gladius was still clenched in his left hand, the torn destruction of his right arm explaining that shift in method.  Duncan gripped his wrist, feeling the residual tension in the dead muscles.  Soft as a lover he murmured, "//My rage is gone, and I am struck with sorrow.//"**

**Rising slowly, he turned to the men waiting, abashed, around him.  "//Take him up:  Help, three of the chiefest soldiers//--"  Methos' arm swung free as they lifted him, and Duncan stepped in quickly to add support.  "//I'll be one.//"  His hand slipped momentarily in the blood, and he renewed his grip firmly.  "//Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully.//  Bring him to the Generals' tent."**

**The mournful procession had taken but a few shuffling steps when a voice behind them said, "Hold!"**

**Duncan whipped his head around.  A taunting Presence was impinging on his outer consciousness--not a sign of renewing life from his precious burden, but an intrusion from the city.  Making slow progress across the open space that separated them, a delegation from Rome moved relentlessly forward.  At the front of the group, a man sat in a chair held by two strong slaves.  Grave-faced in response to the solemn occasion, Kronos was as regal as any king on his throne.**

**The soldiers around Duncan shot questioning looks at their General.  The Romans had sued for peace, and such had been granted, but this command from the enemy...  Sharing their umbrage, Duncan nevertheless yielded his place to an eager penitent and stepped forward.**

**"What would you, Roman?  You already have your peace, bought with this man's blood."**

**Kronos nodded sadly, but his eyes flashed fire as he met Duncan's gaze.  "It is that man, and his blood, that form the basis of my claim.  I come to you as Rome's consul, so proclaimed in gratitude for my sacrifices for her."  He struck the arm of his chair meaningfully, smiling slyly.**

**A cold chill stole over Duncan in the face of what he recognized as purposeful madness.  Methos had called it ambition...  But he forced himself to focus on the critical portion of Kronos' statement.  "What claim?"**

**"Why, my claim on my brother's corpse.  I am Volumnius Marcius, brother to Caius Marcius Coriolanus."  The Volscian soldiers muttered at the sound of that hateful name spoken in the measured Roman accent.  "I will take him to be buried with our father in the Marcius crypt."**

**"Your father?"  Duncan could not seem to do anything but repeat the madness uttered by the other immortal.  Kronos lowered one eyelid in a sly wink.**

**"Our father, dead these many years.  Glad I am he did not live to see the shame brought upon our family by his younger son.  And yet, though he did attack Rome, my brother saved her in the end.  And he shall be buried with all honor."**

**With a fleeting dismissive look at Duncan, Kronos gestured to his bearers to bring him closer to Methos' body.  Reaching in between the arms of the Volscian guards, Kronos covered his brother's body with his own cloak.**

**Duncan was sure that he alone noticed the slim blade that Kronos drove into Methos' heart under cover of the cloak.  Methos' continuing death now assured, Kronos allowed himself a small smile of victory at the impotently raging Pict.  Sparing Duncan a considering glance, he spoke low in the coarse Germanic dialect of his former Vandiili warband.  "Speak you the language of the north, barbarian?"**

**Duncan's heart tightened.  "A bit."**

**"Then perhaps you will understand this," Kronos said.  "The secret to taming a wild beast lies in ensuring that reward and punishment are equally swift and decisive."  A fist closed on Duncan's heart as Kronos smiled.  "I am disappointed to realized that my training of this animal was incomplete.  I shall not make that mistake again."**

**Before Duncan could protest, four of the Roman contingent had stepped forward and relieved the Volscian soldiers of their charge.  Watching the bloodied body as it was born away, Duncan heard again that hateful voice speaking to the crowd.  "I shall return with my brother.  When the terms of the peace have been settled, I expect to see no more of you."**

**Duncan turned quickly, hand seeking his sword, only to be met by Kronos' mocking smile.  "Now, savage," he growled in Vandiili, "holy ground!"  With that grinning admonition, Kronos ordered his porters to turn, and the Roman delegation made mournful passage back through Frontinalis gate.**

 

* * *

**Creeping quietly through the dark streets of Rome, Duncan followed the strengthening sense of Presence; it rasped like a cat's tongue along his stretched nerves.  There was only one Presence emanating from the dark villa belonging to the brothers Marcius.  Drawing on his knowledge of snakes, spiders, and other poisonous killers, Duncan knew that the single Presence could only be Kronos.  Methos was doubtless dead again.  Duncan permitted himself a useless hope that he might have been dead for all the hours since Kronos took him.  Kronos had mentioned swift punishment, however, and Duncan knew that this current death was probably no more than a brief, blessed respite.**

**Slipping past the empty rooms, he was not surprised to find the villa abandoned. Perhaps the servants had been sent to pray for their late master's soul.  Good luck to them: his soul was still tied to his body, and Duncan planned to keep it that way.**

**Duncan stepped into the cool air of the thick-walled inner chamber and stopped, eyeing Kronos' drawn sword warily.  After his first quick glance around the room to search for threats, he resolutely restricted his wandering gaze.  Hard enough to fight this brutal foe, without the added challenge of soul-sickening nausea.**

**The room looked like an abattoir--or Mars' temple before a battle.  In the corner, chains and vivid splatters of blood left little question as to what had occurred.  Duncan wondered absently what the neighbors had thought of the screams from the brothers' house.  The walls were thick, but surely some sound had disturbed the Romans' costly peace.  Perhaps they considered them to be the mournful wails of Volumnius Marcius.**

**Speculation ceased as Kronos spoke.  "You surprise me, barbarian.  Having seen how ill this beast of mine obeys me, you still wish own the wretched creature?"**

**"To free him.  Eagles do not belong in chains.  And I hold much of the blame for his captivity here."**

**"How sweet."  Kronos licked his teeth.  "You Picts were ever a brooding race.  Except on the field of battle, of course, where I will grant you talent and skill."  He raised his sword higher.  "Time now to test that skill, I think."**

**The battle was begun.  Duncan carefully banked his rage to do his bidding as he leaped to the attack.  They were well-matched to begin with, and Duncan whispered silent thanks to his lover for their sparring in the weeks past--it gave him valuable insight into Kronos' fighting style.**

**The small room gave neither man enough space to fight comfortably, and both slipped in blood more than once.  When Kronos forced him against the far wall, Duncan fervently ignored the soft, cold form he felt at his back.  The rattle of chains as he pulled away sounded loud above their harsh gasps of effort.  Kronos' machinations had been a mistake, however.  Far from disturbing his concentration, the knowledge that his dead lover hung just behind him improved Duncan's strategy.  Methos, even dead, was a weapon Kronos could use against him...Duncan didn't want to consider the possibility of Kronos' sword against that lifeless throat.**

**Fighting defensively in front of Methos, Duncan began to gain the advantage as Kronos tired.  Many years in a chair, no matter how unnecessary, would seem to have taken their toll, and first blood also marked the end of the fight.  Kronos snapped at him like a snared fox, his hands scrabbling on the bloody blade that gutted him.  Leaning in, Duncan spoke in low, measured tones, echoing words he had heard in a similar situation not too long ago.  "I am ever loath to lose a good enemy."  His eyes flicked quickly over the signs of torture marring the small storeroom.  "But I see nothing good here."  Tugging his sword from Kronos' body, he swung it in a short, vicious arc that carried Kronos' head several feet from his body.**

**The terrible ecstasy of the Quickening took him through the heart, a vast whirlwind of fire and pain and lust and remembrance.  Images of battle and blood, rapes, murders, victories, and defeats.  Stark memories of frozen nights and burning towns, dying kinsmen and swift, brutal vengeance.  But by far the strongest and deepest memories: hundreds of years with his brother, taming and training the wild thing he had been, honing the sharp blade of his mind, the bright fire of his loyalty.  Ambivalent longings, tentative affection, and cruel contempt. Swirling through the torturous mix of lust, hatred, envy, anger, jealousy, and love, there remained the comfort of brotherhood, of one man trusted at his back with a sword.**

**When it ended, Duncan found himself on his knees beside the decapitated body.  Despite his new kinship with the dead Vandal, he wasted no time on sentiment.  Turning to the shadowed wall, he released Methos' shackles and caught the limp body over his shoulder.  He could only hope the man waited until they were outside of Rome to revive; just in case he awoke inconveniently, Duncan readied a slim dagger in his left hand where he also balanced the body.  His sword drawn in his right hand, he slipped carefully through the darkened villa and into the streets.**

**The thin crescent moon cast its anemic light across the roofs of Rome, and Duncan stood waiting in the shadows for a sign.  There!  The Quickening had provided his promised distraction, and he could hear the Volscian troops taking swift advantage of the weak guard on the Porta Caelimontana.  He called silent blessing down on their endeavors as he used the chaos in the streets to hide his passage out of the city, away from the Romans and Volsces forever.**

 

* * *

**Methos had healed but was still unconscious when Duncan pulled his horse to a stop in the sheltered grove beside a small stream.  Wasting no time, Duncan placed him beside the water and began washing him:  he knew from personal experience how unpleasant it was to come back to life covered in the inevitable accompaniment to a bloody, painful death.  As the water around them began to run clear again, Duncan let himself savor the feel of Methos' skin, whole and undamaged, the soft whisper of his breathing, the gathering speed of his heart.  The blue cast of Methos' skin around his mouth, eyes, and fingernails was fading as his body recovered from the massive blood loss.  It was like watching spring take hold after a desert rain, a flash flood of persistent life.**

**He had dried the lax limbs and gathered Methos into his arms before the first signs of waking rewarded his efforts.  Again drawing on personal experience, Duncan covered his sword hilt with one hand and gathered both Methos' wrists into the other--no need to put Methos to the trouble of cleaning *him* after a messy death.**

**Rising to Duncan's expectations, Methos managed to gouge him in the ribs as he awoke, writhing frantically to escape the arms that held him.**

**"Wheest, wheest, love.  You're safe; be still."  Duncan knew when the reassurance of his voice overcame the instinctive warning of his Presence: Methos relaxed into his embrace, breathing hard after his efforts.  Following the inevitable and near-universal progress of rejuvenation, Methos reviewed his last memories--from the look on his face, they were none too pleasant.**

**"Kronos?"  His voice was rough with exhaustion, and even though Duncan knew the damage from Methos' screams must have healed, he winced at the ragged sound.**

**"I took his head."  He didn't know whether to apologize or boast, and so he lay quiet, awaiting Methos' reaction.**

**When it came, it was anticlimactic.  "He'd be glad it was you."**

**"What?"**

**"He'd be glad it was you, a barbarian.  He hated the thought of a Roman gaining his Quickening.  He'd have preferred one of his own tribe, but I think a Pict..." he broke off suddenly, breathing raggedly.**

**Duncan pulled him in tighter, feeling the light tremble running through his frame but helpless to ease his anguish.  "He would have preferred you to have it."  It was not a question, but Methos shook his head.**

**"No.  No more than you would want a dog to take your Quickening."**

**"You were not his dog."**

**"True."  Methos gave him a mirthless smile.  "He always respected his hounds.  Anyway, he's gone, and I see no need to speak well or ill of the dead."**

**With Kronos' Quickening still seeking a comfortable level within him, Duncan sensed the dead man's memories almost as clearly as his own.  He wanted to remonstrate with Methos, tell him some of what Kronos had felt.  But this was not the time, as Methos pressed back against him, reminding him of another ancillary effect of taking a Quickening.**

**"Give me a few more minutes to replenish my blood, and I can help you out with that."  Methos was grinning at him now, the melancholy of the previous minutes set aside for the base realities of Immortal life.  He laughed out loud when Duncan handed him a wine-sack, gesturing at him to drink up.**

**Trailing his hand down long muscles of Methos' back, Duncan tried to distract himself with talk.  "The Volsces should be storming Rome's walls now."**

**"By Caelimontana?"**

**"If they hold to their plan."**

**Methos nodded thoughtfully.  "It could work.  You're breaking the peace?"**

**"They're breaking the peace.  All I did was offer a distraction."**

**"The Quickening?  So I may be partially responsible for Rome's sack, after all."  Methos shrugged.  "No matter.  Do we rejoin the Volsces at the Campus Martius or in Corioli?"**

**Duncan felt a wave of golden joy at Methos' implicit assumption of their shared future.  Now he too could make plans for the two of them.  "They fight without me from now on.  And without Caius Marcius Coriolanus."**

**"More fortunate, they.  And we?"  Methos was beginning to evidence a more than sympathetic interest in the proceedings, and Duncan knew his need for distraction would soon end.**

**"I had thought perhaps Africa.  My lover tells me of the remains of a culture older and richer than any the world has known, before or since."**

**Methos laughed, exultant, then rolled over to lightly pin him.  "It sounds intriguing, mine.  But it can wait."**


End file.
